


Hermione Granger and the Price of the Phoenix

by linusmir



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality
Genre: All the Malfoy Feels, Gen, Post-HPMOR, Rationality Fic, World Optimization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7604113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linusmir/pseuds/linusmir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After defeating Rational Tom Riddle, Harry still has quite a few big problems to solve before his campaign for World Optimization can really get going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Threat Level: Unknown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sareliz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sareliz/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/217048) by Eliezer Yudkowsky. 



> This story assumes familiarity with the events of Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality. Be aware, if you haven't read HPMOR, you will be confused.

April 8th, 1992

 

He woke in the dark, heart racing in terror. There was something he needed to do. Think and remember. My name is… what? Were they that thorough? They took that too?

Stop. Check in. What do you remember? 

I took their stories. I wrote them, for myself. For my fame and fortune. Because I deserved something. I deserved so much more than the hand I was dealt. I made sure that they wouldn’t find me: I erased all memory of myself.

_ Someone did find you _ , a voice in his head said.  _ Someone found you, and they were quite clever indeed. Remember that signal you came up with, so that you’d know if someone was trying your own tricks on you? Your tongue does not hurt, and yet, you can’t remember your own name! _

The memory came again, sharp and cutting.  _ Bite your tongue!  _ his mother had said. She had said it over and over and  _ over _ again. But the pain of the memory was strangely blunted. She had always spat his first, middle, and last names in a horribly cutting fashion just before saying that, and he could not. Remember. His.  _ Name _ .

Stop. The mirror. The tattoo on your chest. Read it. It will tell you what to do, even if they’ve taken that knowledge out of your mind.

He climbed out of his sweat-soaked sheets, and staggered to the bathroom. His wand was in his hand. Good, he thought. At least they left me that.

“ _ Lumos Maxima,” _ he said shakily. It took him two more tries for the spell to take, and his bathroom was filled with a bright green light. It gave his flesh a sickly, corpselike aspect, but it did render the words written in flowery, ornate script on his chest completely legible.

“Your name is Gilderoy Laevus Lockhart. You are a wizard. The only spell that you can cast in the accepted fashion is Obliviate, and you have used this power accordingly. If any of your memories have been stolen, you will find help at Gringotts. If for some reason you have decided to trust anyone, your mind has been tampered with. Check your surroundings and proceed to Gringotts.”

Gilderoy Laevus Lockhart… He liked the sound of that. It fit surprisingly well. Yes… He would examine his house for anything out of place, or anything missing, and he would read the diary of his memories that he kept in his vault at Gringotts carefully, to see what else the intruder had done. 

After so long of dreading this day, of preparing for it, he was surprisingly glad that it had come. Somehow, it wasn’t hanging over his head anymore. And as it had turned out, the cleverer wizard hadn’t been that clever at all. If he had, he would have taken everything. That was what he had been dreading, that was what he had planned so long against. And now, the enemy had turned out to be far less cunning than he was. They hadn’t even taken the memory of his Gringotts vault, or of his password. They hadn’t really thought this through, had they? Not like he had. It was almost disappointing, in a way. 

He had his wand, he had his magic, he had a surprising amount of memories remaining. He had every advantage, really.

Stop. Don’t let your guard down. Just because one enemy is an idiot doesn’t mean everyone will be. Don’t get sloppy. Take every precaution. 

Yes, he needed to be careful. He needed to remember what he could lose. And he had an idea that things would be proceeding quite quickly, now. He would be completely lost if he couldn’t keep up. Perhaps it was finally time to return to Hogwarts. And this time, they  _ would _ give him the welcome that he deserved.

 

* * *

 

June 13th, 1992

 

She slowly pulled herself out of the burning rubble, shooting pains gradually disappearing as the mountain troll in her blood reformed her torn and beaten flesh. The explosion had been sudden and fierce. None of the magical warning systems had so much as uttered a squeak of protest before the cacophony, and she had seen nothing at all out of place.

She should have insisted, should have made her lover undergo the ritual once they knew there was even the barest chance that the Stone could be lost to them. And now, though she had long ago promised herself that the past was the past, unable to be changed even by magic, she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. There were so few people on this Earth that she actually liked. So few who could keep up their end of an interesting conversation, who could understand her, who could satisfy her utterly. And now, there was one less.

She quickly put aside her regrets, however. After this long, she was nothing if not pragmatic. And, now, she was no longer constrained by the whims of the one she had loved.

She had seen the lifeless body, not of the woman she had met so long ago, in another lifetime, but the body that had housed the same soul. The body that had brought her to pleasures undreamed of, even when she’d been far from an innocent, so long ago. The mind that, ever so occasionally, came up with something new and marvelous to liven her long days. The soul that she had, truly, loved.

She was, in fact, tempted to resist this. But, she knew it was futile. She could get quite angry about her lover’s death, if she let herself. But she didn't like herself when she was angry. Anger had only led to loss, for her, ever since that day long ago, when she had lost all. 

If there was a method for truly returning from death, the knowledge of it had eluded her all these long years. She had researched countless possibilities, and none of them would quite get one there. Well, there was a method that might serve, but her lover’s ancestors would be anonymous dust by now.

No, best to get this over with. She would miss her lover, but she knew from experience that she would move on, and so she saw no reason to wait. Yet another life would begin for her now, and even if she never regained the Stone, she was in her favorite Form, which was quite durable indeed, now, with the carefully managed addition of one troll and one dragon.

And, the Stone was last at Hogwarts, which was as good a place as any to begin. After all, if recent trends were to be trusted, they would soon need a new Defense Professor.

She felt a wide and mischievous grin forming on her face, as she considered the shape of the future. 

She was Baba Yaga the Undying once more, and she would have her vengeance.

 

* * *

 

 

He dreamed of happier times: The unmitigated joy of discovering that he was special, that he could do magic. A shouted name:  _ SLYTHERIN! _ \- like being seen and instantly judged worthy. And a snakey riddle, like a long awaited reward. 

Another fragment that somehow brought the smell of musty parchment:  _ Baba Yaga the Undying _ \- someone else who understood, a kindred spirit. Someone to seek out, and learn from.

Learning, always learning, more and more, at a dizzying pace. Soaking in all the things he could do, all the magnificent specialness. Finally succeeding, finally finding the snake, the giant snake, Slytherin’s Basilisk, the snake he could talk to. Knowing that he was a worthy Heir of Slytherin. Learning so much, discovering that magic was not at all like he had thought it was. Seeing the patterns and the connections, so obvious once you saw what it was you were actually looking at. Triumph that was tinged with something elusive, something unremembered. He had learned not to trust the unmixed blessing, but he couldn’t remember why that was so.

Knowing that he was smart enough to fix all broken things, and realizing exactly what he needed to do. Delighting in the most cunning idea he had ever had, the plan that he would hatch to gain power and reshape the entire world in his image.

Learning to spar. The fluid graceful dance of two opponents, equally matched, neither taking the openings that they knew to be traps. The economy of motion, the effortless flips, the joy of the dance that could last until utter exhaustion set in. An old man telling him that he had done well, that he had mastered the style. There was something missing there too. Something he had known once, about that man. Something important. File the strangeness away for later. It may be key.

Always learning. Learning things that no one in the world knew anymore. Figuring out the puzzles left by clever wizards for clever wizards. Triumph, and again, something else. Missing pieces, always missing pieces. File it for later. It always makes sense in the end.

Hearing words brought to him by another, and knowing, with crystalline certainty, what he needed to do. Knowing that he would be the first to defeat Fate itself. Setting out, already anticipating the shaping of his equal.

Sleeping inside an emerald, Tom Riddle dreamed.

 

* * *

 

June 14th, 1992

 

_ The feeling of emptiness that filled him up was so profound that it left no room even for lies. _

_ Everyone was dead. _

_ Everyone was dead, and it had all been futile from the beginning. _

 

The Scion of Malfoy, last of his Most Ancient and Noble House, followed the enemy of his family, emptiness in his mind, and emptiness in his eyes.

One thing echoed dully in his thoughts, though. One question that hadn’t consciously registered when he was asked it, and if it had, it still wouldn’t have quite made sense.  _ Lying or murder, lying or murder, which is worse? _

He knew on some level that most would unthinkingly say that murder was the worse crime, and that many lies were completely innocent. He had, in fact, lied quite often, sometimes at the encouragement of his father. Who was dead now. Along with his world. 

His father, who was dead, had also told him that he wasn’t to murder until he was at least of legal age, and had successfully misled a worthy enemy at least three times. He was also quite clear that nothing of the sort should ever be traceable to Malfoy house. This didn’t seem to matter all that much anymore, because his father was dead.

The boy listlessly followed Headmistress McGonagall, his family’s enemy, through the Gringotts travel office, because there was nothing else to do, because everyone was dead. If he could have summoned the energy to answer the question that was running through his head, he would have said lies were worse, though he wouldn’t have been able to say why.

As they proceeded to the section of the office for portkeys to somewhere called Australia, he felt no curiosity about the journey. Perhaps Headmistress McGonagall would kill him at the end. Everyone else was dead, after all.

The long tug of the international portkey made no impression on him. He sat numb through the carriage ride, completely ignoring the coachman’s insolent attempts at conversation. The ride in the lift, novel though it was, did not break the numbness. 

It was not until the door in front of him opened, and the woman he had seen only in pictures said his father’s name in a voice he had never heard before that it broke, and suddenly he was sobbing in her arms.

 

* * *

 

His darling daughter Luna, light of his life, had discovered that it was so much more interesting for her to walk around the house standing on her hands. Despite several early falls, she had gotten quite good at it, and he had never really liked that vase anyway. Who was he to stand in the way of youthful exuberance? Besides, he had his writing to keep up with, and with the leadership of the  _ Prophet _ in disarray, demand had never been so high.

As he read through the final draft of the true story of the defeat of He Who Must Not Be Named, he heard a distant crash, and then the familiar high melodic tones of his daughter’s Gift. He immediately grabbed the nearest quill and scrap of parchment, and began to write:

_ The old snake and the young snake, the sleeping snake, the too cunning snake. All the twisty little snakes. All at the castle, all vexing the prince. _

While he ran off to help his daughter brush herself off, Xenophilius pondered this prophecy. A plague of serpents, but upon which castle? No, too simple, too literal. But the answer would come to him in the end, he knew. It would come to him, and by Merlin, it would be a wonderful story.


	2. Slytherins and Slytherins

She hadn’t remembered Draco. Narcissa felt the hot shame of the realization, even though her memories were still quite jumbled, she knew the spell did this, and it had just been explained to her again. She was all stirred up now, but soon calm would return, and, she had been assured, the memories of the Muggle world would recede, like so many bad, ugly dreams.

In the meantime, though, she resolved to do anything for Draco, the child that she only remembered as a babe in arms. In her arms, mostly. Lucius was often busy, the Dark Lord kept him busy, the Dark Lord who wasn’t one to understand why a child would need his father. The Dark Lord who would sacrifice any of his followers without a thought, as though they were an army of Muggles or House-Elves. And Lucius had explained that he couldn’t speak up, couldn’t question any of it, that it would be a sign of weakness. Something had to give, but she hadn’t meant for it to end up this way. 

Eleven years. Lucius had thought she was dead for eleven years. And the Dark Lord had killed him before he could learn the truth. The Dark Lord had seemed dead, she had just learned. No, he had  _ been _ dead, to everyone but that meddler Dumbledore, him and his schemes. And she had been just as effectively dead, to the real world anyway. And Draco had been raised without his mother. And she had never known her son.

Dumbledore, was he too calculating to bring her back once she and her husband were out of immediate danger? Was she just one more piece on his chessboard? One more sacrifice to be made, for the greater good? He’d better have a good reason for this, or he was going to suffer.

Narcissa Malfoy looked up from where she was comforting her son, and addressed the witch she now recognized as Professor McGonagall of Hogwarts. “As soon as my son is safely back to Malfoy Manor, I will need to speak to Headmaster Dumbledore about an urgent matter.”

The witch looked pained, as if Narcissa were a healer poking a freshly bound wound, and asking if it hurt. “I am afraid,” the Professor said, “that Headmaster Dumbledore is unavailable for the foreseeable future. Perhaps forever. In his final confrontation with the Dark Lord, the Headmaster was trapped outside of time. I am Headmistress of Hogwarts now, although I do hope that I shall see Albus Dumbledore returned to us once more. If you need to speak to me regarding anything to do with Hogwarts, I can hear you as soon as you are ready. If this concerns other matters, I fear that you shall have to seek Harry Potter.”

Draco went rigid in her arms. “Potter,” he said, and there was venom and despair in his voice. “Harry Potter should have died.” 

Harry Potter… She had been acquainted with James Potter, and while he was a rather annoying sort of Gryffindor, she had never managed to work up the energy to wish him dead. His wife, Lily, had been nice enough, for a Muggleborn. And, yes, hadn’t they had a child recently?

Her mind reeled as ‘recently’ became ‘twelve years ago’ all over again. Draco’s next question caught her completely off-guard.

He looked straight at her, untold pain in his eyes, and asked, “Why do we lie so much, mother?”

* * *

They had called her Grandmother Snake, once. The name had stuck, and she quite enjoyed it, though the original meaning had eventually been lost. To her, though, it still meant the respect for one much wiser than oneself, and the acknowledgement of dangerous, deadly power. So despite all the legends, only some of which were based in truth, she was still proud to be called Baba Yaga.

It would not do to have such a recognizable name, however, especially when the old stories had gotten so colourful. And she had long since tired of using a disposable identity. Perhaps her given name would do, if only she could get used to it again. Ziva, her mother had called her. But it had been so long, after all, and she did not like to return to the past. It did feel strangely right, however, and she would need all of her fire and cunning, if she was to return to Hogwarts. News out of Britain had been quite strange indeed, as of late. 

She had no idea at all what could possibly be going on with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, for example. Which was quite a rare and interesting situation for her, and so she looked forward to finding out the truth of things. After all, when a Dark Lord is defeated in mysterious and suspicious circumstances once, it does not necessarily indicate a larger plot. But for that same Dark Lord to return, and be defeated again in a remarkably similar manner implies either that the given Dark Lord is quite careless indeed, or that someone is not telling the whole truth. 

She would unravel this in time, she knew. But it was quite the rarity for her to be confronted with such a puzzle. And so, as she went about her preparations, she savored it, like a rare and exotic fruit, with sticky juices.

As she considered the puzzle that was in front of her, she realized that her thoughts seemed to be running on well-worn tracks, back again to her dead love. Again, she felt the absence in her life. The sharp, stabbing pain in her chest that she thought she’d let go of already. The woman that she had shared the last six hundred years with, lost so quickly.

She was getting distracted again. Lost in the past, so tempting to get lost in the past. And she had so much past to lose herself in. It would not do. Her love was dead, and she had promised herself that she would no longer live in the past.

She had become so used to Perenelle being available and willing to satisfy her every desire. In some ways, despite her precautions, she had become soft. Well, no time like the present to build new habits. Two more errands, and then, perhaps if she felt like it, she would give herself a special reward.

* * *

They didn’t talk in the common room, not in anything more than monosyllables. It was too risky, there was too much at stake, surrounded by enemies, with all outside alliances shattered, and with so many Slytherins proving themselves traitorous. There could be no failure, because then there would be no one left to continue on. And then wizardkind would be ruined, doomed to die a slow death. Just like Lord Malfoy had warned.  _ Our wands will break in our hands, and we will be no better than Muggles.  _ Lord Malfoy was dead, everyone who had wielded true power was dead, but their ideas lived on.

And so, they met in a disused classroom, late at night, each of them leaving at a different time, each taking whatever precautions they could. The strongest of them cast ten powerful spells on the room, once all were there, nearly exhausting his magic. The next strongest cast three more. And still, it was desperately risky, but then, it was life and death for the entire wizarding world. Risks, lies, torture, and killings were entirely justifiable, if you believed that. If you really believed that a loss was the end of your world, then what wouldn’t you do, to protect the only life you knew?

After the secret meeting, once everyone had separately left, Lesath Lestrange cast a  _ Finite _ on his hooded cloak, and went off to give his report to his master.

Some time after that, the door to the empty classroom opened briefly, and shut once more.

* * *

Malfoy Manor was much as she had left it. Dobby’s shocked exclamation of “Mistress Malfoy!” gave way to his usual deferent servitude, and Narcissa was glad to see that that hadn’t changed while she was away. It was good to be home, even though the house reminded her painfully of Lucius. The deadly snake stared at her as she passed, through the ophidarium window, as though she, the Lady Malfoy, were an outsider trespassing. But then, it had always done that. It was just another fixture of Malfoy Manor, and quite an improvement on the Black ancestral home, even she would admit that.

Draco had opened up once they had Apparated home from St. Mungo’s. He still seemed hesitant and subdued, but then, he had lost his father, and he had never known her. Even so, it was amazing just to be able to talk to her son. His first year at Hogwarts, though, that had sounded… odd. Dumbledore had actually put it out that he’d been driven mad by the war? Now that was an interesting ploy. She couldn’t see how it wouldn’t end up doing more damage than necessary, herself. But she supposed it must have furthered his ends somehow, else why bother? 

Why some people tried to be Slytherins when they so clearly didn’t have the first idea how to manage things, she would never know.

Her son, though, had led an army, and done admirably, by the sound of it. Well, that was to be expected. He was a Malfoy, and a son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. It was only fitting that this Professor Quirrell had recognized his deservedness and talent. 

Draco’s description of his fellow General, Harry Potter, worried her, however. “You don’t think the Dark Lord’s curse could have damaged him somehow?” Narcissa asked her son.

Draco looked shocked, and then thoughtful. “Why didn’t I think of that hypothesis?” he said, meditatively. “No...” he continued. “I think it’s more that he was raised by Muggles, and had books instead of friends. And the Muggles have surprisingly powerful ideas about how to manipulate reality. I know,” he said to her raised eyebrow, “I was doubtful at first too, but General Potter got the better of me several times, and I had to learn from him. Now, I can't be sure that he's worth my time. If I'm to keep up, I’ll have to learn without him.” His voice contained both a hard determination and a deeper pain.

“What could you possibly learn from Muggles? I have known Muggleborns to sometimes have quaintly interesting ideas, but they usually grow out of them fairly quickly and become worthy enough of their place in our world.” She hadn’t always believed this, of course, but time had taught her to be generous with those beneath her.

Her son looked nervous, but determined, and she felt an odd pride growing as he answered her. “The second time I met Harry Potter, he showed me that Muggles had built strange and complicated devices in order to travel to the moon. I don’t understand how they did that yet,” he said, to her shocked expression, “but I intend to learn. Muggles are gaining their own power, and I don’t intend to let them continue to misuse it. Professor Quirrell knew that wizardkind needs to be unified, and he was convinced that the Muggles were becoming dangerous in their own right, and Potter has said other alarming things about them. He has no hope of uniting the wizarding world, but I know I can, and I can also learn what the Muggles are capable of, so that we can be ready if they ever do find out about our world. This is my path to power, Mother.”

Her son looked more excited than she had yet seen him, this day. He was grinning for the first time, and his young, exuberant face melted something within her that had been hardened since she had learned that Lucius had died. She smiled back at him, tears glistening in her eyes, and said in a choked voice, “You truly are worthy of the Malfoy name, my son, and my own father would be proud of such an ambition.” And then they were hugging again, and this time, both were weeping.

* * *

The witch who no longer called herself Baba Yaga walked through a crowded Russian market, letting the chaos and the familiar smells wash over her. It was oddly relaxing to wander the Muggle areas of the world, to have the magic that she saw fade from a constant overwhelming brightness to an ever-present ebbing and flowing tide. And the Muggles had been doing such interesting things as of late. They were all quite insane, of course, as recent events in Russia had proven. The new Democracy had left their most powerful weapons in the hands of a well-loved drunk. That would not do.

It had also, apparently, so mismanaged its finances, that its citizens were wearily exchanging absurd volumes of paper to buy even a single potato. She, of course, had a pouch with enough silver to see her through. Less conspicuous than gold, it had still caused quite the jealous gleams in the merchants’ eyes. They were always able to agree on a reasonable price, however, in the end. It probably helped that the first person to touch her purse had been on the ground unconscious in under five seconds. But still, she finished that errand quickly and left, before things could get out of hand. She was followed by a small army of beggars, but if she had given anything to any of them, the others would have beaten it out of him. She had learned that lesson long ago.

Yes, her other errand was long overdue. It was far too unstable here.

She rounded a corner, and disappeared from that place

* * *

Narcissa was exhausted when she and her son had covered the essentials, and were ready to retire for the night. She continued to be amazed how little had changed here, as she entered the bedroom she had shared with her husband. Nothing was out of place, all was as she remembered it, and she felt a sorrowful air over the room, as if…

“Narcissa, my darling, why ever haven’t I seen you here before?” She started and jumped. The voice was her husband’s, but the ghostly figure was hooded and masked. “No,” he continued, “no, I see now, you are not dead. Dumbledore was lying, and I see now how it served him.” There was dark amusement in his voice, though she still could not see his face.

“Lucius,” she croaked, feeling his absence the more keenly for all that his spirit was still bound to this world. This room, the manor, it looked as if nothing had changed. But it couldn’t be the same anymore. She couldn’t pick up her life where she’d left it eleven years ago. This reunion was a cruel mockery of how things should have been. “Lucius, they told me you were dead, they told me the Dark Lord had sacrificed you to buy new life.”

“No my dear. I am dead, but not at the Dark Lord’s hand. Rather, the Dark Lord used me to force Harry Potter’s hand, to limit him, and to attempt to kill him. I owe a great debt to House Potter, for I have failed them utterly, as I have failed Draco. I was allied with Harry Potter, in facing your killer, and in facing the unknown plotter who had used Draco against me. But I was forced into raising my wand against Harry Potter, forced by the Dark Lord. You were right about him, my love. I never should have joined myself to his cause.” The ghost slumped slightly, and the masked head tilted alarmingly. She caught a glimpse of gruesome red before her husband’s hand shot up to right his head. “The Dark Lord saw me as no more than a tool, and a flawed instrument at that. Remind Draco of my folly, when he is strong enough to bear it. He needs to know that the Malfoy way is not always the best way. You will tell him, love?”

“I will, Lucius, please…” She didn’t even know what she wanted to ask, what she could ask, she wanted to touch him, she wanted to lose herself in his embrace but that wasn’t an option anymore and it was like losing a piece of herself.

“You must know, my love,” the ghost of her husband continued. “You must know what happened. Harry Potter killed me, as he should have. It was utterly necessary, and you must not hate him for it. Harry Potter stopped the Dark Lord again, my love, and for that I am grateful to him. House Malfoy owes him a Blood Debt, you must know. You must know.” 

And the spirit of Lucius Malfoy faded away, leaving Narcissa weeping into her pillow.

* * *

She waited, in the place that had been prepared for her. She had recovered nicely, these last few months. All of her needs had been provided for, she had been instructed in the things that she had forgotten, in her time away from the world, and she had been given a daily regimen of magical practice. She would never be who she once was, that Bellatrix Black was dead. She had been eaten by the dementors of Azkaban for ten years, and nothing remained of her, save one piece. The foundation, the cornerstone.

All that she was, she owed to her Lord. He had taken her, reformed her in his image, turned her into a useful tool, and given her a purpose beyond herself. She had been grateful, she knew, though the Dementors had eaten that too. She had needed a purpose, she did still remember that.

And when, at last, her years of despair and slow death were over, he had come for her, to remake her yet again. He had come for her in Harry Potter’s body, to show her that the world did have a sense of irony, that the night that had ended her hopes and imprisoned her in Azkaban did have a punchline after all. She still laughed at that, sometimes, even now.

When he had visited her, to check on her progress, she’d asked if he was to keep the boy’s body, if he would be ruling that way. Lord Voldemort had laughed.

“No, dear Bella,” he had said. “I am only in this form for a little longer, for it does not suit me. No, I will be returning to my former glory soon enough. Events are already in motion. On the ides of June, I will come to you, in my preferred form, or I will have been thwarted. But I cannot truly die, never doubt that, dear Bella. Never doubt that. If they do kill this body, or the form that I will take on next month, I will possess another, and I will come for you then. But they may be cleverer still, and in that case, I will have a further task for you. I will tell you of that presently. But first, I need your left arm, dear Bella.”

She had held it out to him, and he had cast a charm that she had never heard before, and her arm had fallen to the floor, without blood and without pain. She had tried to move her index finger, and it had moved, there on the ground. Then a second charm, which had felt like dipping her severed flesh into boiling oil. She bore it, unspeaking, only faint tears moistening her eyes. After a minute, she’d tried to move it again, but the arm remained still. And he had cast a third charm, at which an arm had reforged itself, in gleaming silver, from the stump of her left shoulder. She could feel the power of it.

“Thank you, Lord,” Bellatrix had said. She had, of course, memorized all three charms, in case it should prove useful in the future that she know them.

“You are an ever-faithful servant,” Lord Voldemort had said, in the high, boyish voice, “And that is rare indeed. Now, Bella, to other matters.” And he had instructed her in what to do, if he should not come for her on June 13th. She had asked questions, and he had had ready answers, which, strangely enough, did not entirely reassure her. Still, she was bound to him by more than magic, her battered heart ached for him still, and she would obey him in all things.

And so, on the morning of the 14th of June, 1992, Bellatrix Black packed up her few belongings, and prepared to retrieve the item her Lord had described to her, as he had instructed.

* * *

She appeared in a place of dull metal and harsh blinking lights. It was worse off here than she’d remembered, Ziva thought to herself. She may not have even needed the precaution of invisibility to arrive unnoticed, which astounded her. Instead of standing alert and on guard, the soldiers were smoking and gambling, and the traces of magic she saw were not like the usual clean bright light. Rather, they were pale, rotten things that made her skin crawl to look at them. She cast another small spell, to shield herself against the drain they represented, and proceeded onward.

There were several weapons that hadn’t been here the last time she had visited. Apparently, even as the country crumbled to pieces around them, they still persisted in building the cursed things. Even though, in the end, they had managed to  _ lose track _ of a shocking number of the weapons, when the government collapsed. In a repetition of six years ago, when one of their power plants nearly blew up, they were being staggeringly incompetent. It would be the kind of thing to make her angry, if she had still let herself get angry. From past experience, her anger was never good news for anyone, least of all herself, and it would be particularly suicidal here. 

At any rate, that incompetence was what she was here to deal with, wasn’t it?  _ She _ hadn’t lost track of any of them. She knew exactly where every one of the deadly little things were.

She went quickly to her work, casting several spells of her own devising on each of the new weapons. First on the arming mechanism, then on the circuitry, then on the firing mechanism, then on the payload, and finally, on the propulsion system. Such strange, exotic words the Muggles had. It had taken her a fair number of years to learn enough of their science to understand her avenues of attack, once she had realized what they had been up to, in their cunning stupidity. But it had been worth every year she had spent studying Nuclear Physics and Electrical Engineering, as they called their arcane knowledge. 

Once her work in that place was done, Ziva moved on to the next missile silo.


	3. Interruptions

### June 15th, 1992, 9:00 A.M.

 

They had just sat, after she had sworn friendship to Harry. The sun rose higher over the forest, deep green shading lighter as they both thought and talked. Hermione kept moving around and seeing what different actions felt like. She just felt… powerful, and perfectly poised. Like running across an icy roof five stories up wouldn’t be such a big deal anymore. But how to find that out without actually falling, that would be the thing...

“I really do want to do science again,” Hermione said, after a time. “We’ve got so many things to test about my abilities, why not test everything, and just have fun with it? I want absolutely no head-thumping if things don’t go your way, Mr. Potter,” she said with a grin. “Let’s even invite Draco once he gets back, and I promise not to make it all metaphorical again. That was really quite silly of us, wasn’t it? But for now, I just want to know how fast I can _run_.” She grinned wider than maybe she had ever grinned before. It just seemed to happen.

Harry was just opening his mouth to answer her, when there was an oddly patterned knock on the door. “Cloak,” he whispered to her, and she pulled it out while giving him a _look_. He just nodded, and she trusted he would explain everything soon. She pulled the cloak out of her pouch, and disappeared. Harry stood up, and left the balcony, and she invisibly followed him.

“Enter,” Harry said, in a surprisingly intimidating voice. Hermione wondered how he had learned to do that.

An older boy came through the door. His robes were trimmed in green, and Hermione judged him to be in his fourth or fifth year. “My Lord,” he said, and Hermione blinked. The Slytherin continued, “my housemates are plotting against you, the other orphans. They doubt your story of the Dark Lord’s defeat. One said that you were the only wizard who has made a habit of doing the impossible, and also the one who benefits the most from the events as you told them. Another has doubts based on the idea of a ritual calling for 36 sacrifices, which would be extreme indeed, Lord. They are planning to confront you and the girl. They were masked and hooded, with disguised voices, but there were seven there, other than myself. Seven of Slytherin, Lord.”

“Thank you, Lesath,” Harry said, distantly, and Hermione noted the ease with which he put on the mask of a Slytherin master plotter. He really had been spending too much time with Professor Quirrell.

“You have done well today,” Harry continued. “Was there anything more?”

“My Lord, I know I should not, but thank you for not killing my mother,” the boy said slowly.

As Hermione’s eyes widened, Harry merely said, “I had nothing to do with the deaths of anyone that day--”

Lesath quickly responded, “Of course, My Lord,” and bowed slightly before ducking out the door.

Hermione swept off her cloak - _her cloak -_ and asked, “What was that all about?” not even trying to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

Harry looked deservedly sheepish, she thought. “Um… I told myself I wouldn’t take advantage of him, but then, after you… after the troll, I realized I could have asked him for help, and I didn’t think of it. I was an idiot. So, I’m going to help him as I can. He’s had a messed up life, but I’m not going to refuse his help, you know.”

Hermione knew her confusion was showing on her face. “I mean, what was going on with the ‘My Lord’ thing. You did say you weren’t going to be the next Dark Lord, you know. And I fully intend to hold you to that, Mr. Potter.” She just tried to keep her face steady as she continued. “Walking around with hooded minions calling you _Lord_ is dangerously close to recidivism, you know.”

“Oh. That,” Harry said hesitantly. “Yeah, I see how that looks a little peculiar. So, just before the Azkaban breakout last year, he begged me to free his parents. Bellatrix Black and Rabastan Lestrange. He’d heard I could do anything, you see.”

The bitterness in Harry’s voice was shocking, and she realized again just how much he thought he had to fix everything.

“He spat at me when I told him I couldn’t. It was heartbreaking, really.”

Hermione took a slow breath as she considered this. “You know, you keep trying to take responsibility for other people. Not just for that boy, but for everyone. Like when you tried to change Padma. It’s just not healthy at all, trying to fix everything yourself. Particularly when you’re manipulating people into doing what you think is right. That is especially not okay, Harry.”

Harry had an oddly pained look on his face as she said that, and he answered, “I thought I was being clever with Padma, and yes, I have realized that I went too close to the Dark Side with that one.” His eyes dropped to his hands for a moment. “So often, Voldemort thought he was being clever when he was just being empty. So thank you for letting me know that I came too close to that, this year. I know, I’m not Voldemort, but thank you for not letting me get too close.”

As he continued, the sudden vulnerability disappeared, like he had put on a well worn coat again, after briefly taking it off. “I do wish I could just fix everything right now, though, because people are _dying_. People shouldn’t have to die, and I know that’s not my fault, but I can finally do something about it, when nobody else can. That means I need to act as quickly as I can, so that no one else needs to die.”

She could hear the steel in his voice, the determination, and she knew that this was a moment when she would have given up on persuading Harry to listen to her, in the past. Before, she would have called it Harry’s Dark Side, and let it be. But this idea of Harry’s, that he was the only one who could bear the responsibility of managing the problems of the world, well, no one, not even Harry, should carry that burden. How to say that so he could hear it, was the difficulty. Too often, in the past, her words had pushed him into a certain rigidity of thinking. Harry talked about having an open mind, but he didn’t always question his own assumptions.

“You told me about that room Dumbledore had,” she said, after a moment. “Of all the deaths that he blamed himself for. Don’t do that to yourself, Harry. When you take responsibility for the whole world like that, it’s as if there’s a piece of you in your own version of that room, where there’s nothing but blame for the lack of perfection. If you want to end death, make it not be a thing that happens anymore, I’ll give you all the help I can. Now that I’ve actually come back from death, that doesn’t seem horribly daunting, like it would have before. And since I’ve literally been resurrected, it seems callous to deny that kind of thing to anyone else who doesn’t want to die. I mean, before, I probably would have listed out all the problems that we’d cause, letting everyone live forever, but now that just seems like putting all my effort towards thinking of all the reasons it’ll never be solved. Entirely self-defeating, I think. If we start getting overpopulation or food shortages, we’ll solve those problems as we need to, assuming that magic won’t easily solve them for us. Just, don’t make everything your responsibility. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself, Harry. I worry that you’ll break.”

Harry grinned at that. “Well,” he said, “I do work best under pressure, but I can’t really tell you more than I’ve already said about that night, not until you can keep Mr. Bester out of your mind. I really need you to keep saying things like that, though, so thank you. And I really, really need your help with… well, everything, so thank you for that as well. But I got sidetracked there. You’d asked me about Lesath.”

Hermione was frankly astonished that Harry had taken that so well. But thinking about it as he continued on, she realized that as much as she had changed by coming back, Harry had been changed by the weeks that she had missed as well.

“When Black broke out of Azkaban, Lesath just assumed it was me. He told me later. I couldn’t really dissuade him. He wouldn’t listen, when I told him that I had nothing to do with the breakout and when I told him I wasn’t his Lord. He thought I meant he shouldn’t acknowledge any connection between us publicly. Some people are too Slytherin for their own good, I guess. But, well, I couldn’t just tell him to go away.”

Hermione was about to respond to that, when suddenly a silver cat appeared in front of Harry, and spoke to him in the Headmistress’ voice. “Mr. Potter, are you available for a consult? An applicant for a professorship would like to meet you, and after that I have a rather unusual problem, and I could use your rather unusual perspective on the matter.”

“Thank you, Headmistress, I’d be happy to help,” Harry said. He really was getting much better at the whole politeness thing, she thought. “I would be able to meet you shortly, but if it’s anything, um, really important, I’ll need to bring Hermione with.”

She blinked as she heard that, surprise warring with confusion within her as Harry continued. “She’ll need to be around in case I have any, um, dumb ideas, or start getting too clever.”

And astonished surprise had just won. Harry really had grown, quite a bit.

As the patronus returned to the Headmistress, Harry looked over and addressed Hermione. “I was reminded recently that you usually give me good advice, especially about the big stuff. Are you okay coming with?”

It took her a moment to respond to that. Beneath her astonishment, she could _feel_ that she was still getting used to… To actually thinking of herself as an equal to Harry, instead of wishing she _could_ be. It was a wish that, she could see now, hadn’t helped her to actually become his equal. It had spurred her along, yes, but it had fed a resentment that she really didn’t need anymore. “Thank you, Harry,” she finally said. “I would be honored.”

The silver cat returned and asked, “Does Miss Granger wish to join us?”

Harry relayed her agreement, and the patronus disappeared again. Once it had returned, the Headmistress’ voice continued on.

“I am glad to hear it, Mr. Potter. The applicant that I have just interviewed for the Defence position has, in fact, requested to meet both you and Miss Granger. I was utterly unable to describe the both of you succinctly, and so she would like to meet immediately, if convenient. And after that, we shall speak of the other matter I mentioned. And Mr. Potter,” the cat continued, “I will not prevent you from reporting any strange senses of doom, but please do remember that Hogwarts requires a competent Defence Professor this year as well. I haven’t changed the password yet, but you’ll remember it, yes?”

Harry said that he did, and the cat disappeared for a final time. Harry turned to her. “Before we go, she is applying for Defence, so let’s be careful what we say about the Dark Lord, OK?”

This reminder of Hogwarts Normal reaffirmed to her exactly how much Harry had grown up in just two months. That explained the astonishing changes she had already noticed, but she didn’t want to feel like she always had to run to keep up with Harry Potter.

Then she realised she could probably run a whole lot faster than him. Really, now she thought about it, it had been her that had really egged on the competition they’d had throughout the year. It didn’t have to be that way. They could both be the smartest people in Hogwarts, that could be alright.

As her world slowly shifted, Hermione answered Harry. “I’ll just tell the truth of what I remember about the graveyard, if she asks, without mentioning anything about knowing you were involved. And I won’t make eye contact, I’ll just look at her chin when I need to. She could be a Legilimens, after all. Or, she could be completely innocent and normal, for a witch, anyway. Speaking of which, do you think the curse on the Defence position is broken now, since you’ve defeated You-Know-Who again?”

Harry thought for a moment. She could tell that it was an interesting question for him, he would usually answer more quickly than this. Finally he said, “Snape said that the Dark Mark hadn’t faded, I suppose that’s weak evidence for a no, but I have what’s possibly stronger evidence for a yes that I can’t tell you about yet… I have no idea, really, especially since we don’t know exactly how the curse was worded. Interesting. I suppose we’ll have to keep an eye on her just in case.” He sighed. “And I’d hoped to get in at least a week of just studying before things became utterly and completely mad again.”

 

* * *

 

### June 15th, 1992. 10:30 A.M.

 

The Headmistress’ office was a lot quieter, today. Apparently Minerva McGonagall had made some progress on her oft repeated promise to silence all the fiddly little things that Dumbledore had left her. Harry wondered, though, if the office would ever be truly silent. There were at least a dozen devices that were still making noise. Oddly enough, this was more distracting than the cacophony Harry remembered from his previous visits here. With an effort, he directed his attention towards the Headmistress and her guest. They had both just stood up from their chairs by the desk, and the young woman applying for the Defence position looked absolutely tiny next to McGonagall. Her skin was pale, and her hair was black, and yet where the light hit it, tiny patches shone in blue, green, or dark purple. She was blinking repeatedly, as if she were trying to adjust her eyes to a sudden bright light. She wasn’t quite as short as Hermione or himself, and she was much taller than Flitwick, but she was so small and slight that she looked much younger than she probably had to be, to be a serious candidate for the Defence position.

_Shzzup. Shzzup. Meerp._

_Good defensive weapon_ , he thought, ignoring the odd noises that surrounded him. _Makes the enemy underestimate you, and when you do attack, they’ll never expect it._ He noticed after a moment what a strange and unsettling first impression that was, and filed his confusion for later, when he’d have time to think about it. But he did have the distinct sense that something was dangerous here, as if that was what one of the little fiddly things did, gave off an aura of danger that was entirely different from the sense of Doom that he had felt from Professor Quirrell. More fiery, for one. There was, in fact, a new device on a table, near the Sorting Hat’s coatrack. It looked like a small, pink egg, and it occasionally twitched, slightly. Although, an innocuous seeming device that gave off a feeling of burning death and destruction didn’t seem like the kind of thing Dumbledore would leave for his successors.

_Voom. Voooom. Vooom._

The Headmistress herself interrupted his thoughts, and said, “Mistress Miralecha, I would very much like to introduce to you Mr. Harry Potter and Miss Hermione Granger, the two brightest academic stars Hogwarts has seen in this century, and perhaps in the last as well. I am certain you will all get on like a house on-- quite well indeed, I mean to say.” The Headmistress looked oddly sheepish for a moment, before recovering herself, and turning to Harry and Hermione. “We have discussed that you are both quite ahead of the usual start of second-year curriculum, and if you do truly intend to take your OWLs in just a few months, you will be even moreso by the beginning of term. As such, I have suggested you be given tutoring sessions instead of normal classes, and Mistress Miralecha asked to meet you both at that point in the interview.”

Turning to Harry and Hermione, McGonagall continued. “Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, I would like you to meet Mistress Miralecha, who is applying for the Defence Position, and for Head of Slytherin House. Past experience has unfortunately biased Hogwarts against allowing a first-year Defence Professor to apply for a Head of House position,” she said, with a glance and a nod at the shorter woman, “but I have been persuaded to give Mistress Miralecha a chance to apply, at least. We do, of course, require a competent Defence Professor, and even though she did not study at Hogwarts, Mistress Miralecha has quite impressed me with her knowledge and abilities. And of course, anyone who can teach Defence at Durmstrang without losing a single student is greatly to be respected.”

The young woman inclined her head slightly, to acknowledge the compliment.

“Very pleased to meet you,” Harry said, and Hermione did the same.

_Hmmmn. Hmmmmmn. Hmmn._

“I am very pleased to meet you both as well,” Mistress Miralecha said. Her voice was soft and musical, with a trace of an accent that Harry couldn’t quite place. “You may indeed be quite far ahead of the other second-years, and we will discover by just how much when you do take your OWLs, but I am quite confident that I can design a curriculum to challenge nearly anyone. Be aware that I intend to hold you to the pace that you set for yourselves in studying for your OWLs. After all, why should anyone do less than their capabilities? There is far too much of that attitude abroad in the world already. Is this an acceptable condition for your Defence tutoring?”

Harry nodded, inwardly very grateful for his time-turner all over again. With any luck, this coming year would be calmer than the last. This Defence Professor couldn’t be literally Voldemort again, and Moody was still checking in on Grindelwald every few months, so that seemed like a safe assumption, plots against him notwithstanding. “Yes, I think it is. As long as we’re not being asked to do anything that will harm us, I can handle that. Hermione?”

_Fweeep. Fweep. Fweeeeep._

“That sounds good to me.” She had an intense expression on her face, which reminded him of the conversation just this morning, when she’d asked him for a bazooka. She looked excited at the challenge put before her, and ready to face anything.

“Wonderful!” the young woman responded. “I had expected that to be the case, but you never do know. You have both already shocked the Magical World, quite appropriately, I would say. Some quite desperately need the occasional shock to the system.” She paused, and seemed to consider them for a moment.

“The Boy Who Lived and the Girl Who Revived. Yes, I can see it now,” she continued, with a contemplative tone. “Generals of two of the most popular and innovative armies at Hogwarts, astounding magical and academic talents, and vanquishers of the most terrible Dark Lord in living memory. An interesting pattern, that. I suppose it may be too much to ask, but do either of you remember anything about how the Dark Lord was defeated?”

_Zheeng. Zheng. Zheeeeng._

Harry arranged his face into a quizzical and thoughtful expression, while inwardly admiring the construction of the question: it did not imply anything about who had actually defeated Voldemort, either time. Just what level was that gambit on, though? As he considered the question, he adjusted his threat level assessment of the young woman upward a notch.

Hermione answered first. “I just remember waking up in a strange graveyard with the smell of blood in the air and You-Know-Who’s hands around my throat. After just being eaten by a troll. It was all quite disorienting. They say Harry saw it, though,” she said, and glanced over at him.

“I did,” Harry said. He had rehearsed what to say with Moody, since he was bound to be asked more than once. “I was at the Quidditch game, and my scar started hurting, and then it was like someone was hammering a nail right into my forehead, and I started to see things, and hear… a horrible voice.” He didn’t need to fake the emotion in his voice, only tweak it slightly. The betrayal still stung like an open wound, but that wouldn’t do, not quite. “I saw the Death Eaters die, V-Voldemort spoke a word and their heads all fell off. The deaths, the blood, somehow it renewed him, gave him back his full strength, tied his soul to the world again. But Hermione followed him back. I don’t know how, I don’t know why he stole and preserved her body, but,” he grinned over at her, “I am glad you came back.”

_Fzzzz. Fzzzzzz. FZZZZZZZZZZZ._

“I’m glad too, Harry,” Hermione said, with a small smile.

“Anyway, when Voldemort saw what had happened, that Hermione had come back, he tried to strangle her, and then he exploded. That’s what I saw, that night. And I don’t remember anything from eleven years ago, but I expect you’ve heard the story.”

Mistress Miralecha inclined her head. “As you say, Mr. Potter. You wouldn’t happen to have heard which word he spoke, to kill the Death Eaters, I mean?”

Harry outwardly shuddered, and cursed behind his habitual Occlumency barriers. That detail seemed to not fit, in some way he couldn’t explain. The story that he had improvised two nights ago seemed more problematic the more he recited it. He kept the shakiness in his voice as he responded. “It sounded… wrong, somehow. Something no one could say with a normal human mouth.”

The young woman looked thoughtful a moment, then spoke. “He may have discovered the lost wand of Salazar Slytherin, then. There are other possibilities, of course, but he was always quite fond of his gifts as a Parselmouth. Given that as a possibility, it is even more of a relief to see him defeated. With Slytherin’s wand, he would have been formidable indeed.”

Harry blinked, exactly the way that a Harry who had never heard of any legendary wands at all would have. Inside his Occlumency barriers, he made a note to research Slytherin’s wand. He wondered, though, if her response was just to make him think that she was going along with his story of events, while she could in fact see clearly through all the holes in the story. _What level are you playing at, Mistress Miralecha?_

“On a lighter topic, the record of your and Miss Granger’s generalship both speak for themselves. I confess, I was surprised to hear that your Professor Quirrell had given such responsibility to First Years, but he certainly chose and encouraged all of you very well indeed. The entire Wizarding World was watching Chaos, Dragon, and Sunshine. It was diverting in a way that few things are, in my experience.”

The world-weariness in that last sentence clashed audibly with the apparent youth of Mistress Miralecha, and as Harry reviewed the last few minutes of conversation, he belatedly increased her threat level another notch. _Okay,_ he thought, _what would it mean if she knew that Voldemort couldn’t have decapitated all the Death Eaters at once?_

_Mrer. Mrer. Mrrrrrrrr,_ came the answer from a cube that appeared to be covered in pink hair.

“I would have liked very much to have met Quirinius Quirrell,” the Defence applicant continued, as if she hadn’t just been interrupted by a pink device that sounded like an engine stubbornly refusing to start. “There are too few competent instructors in magical battle, and I would have liked to have discussed several things at length with him. Ah, well. He did much to restore the reputation of Slytherin’s House, which I feel has been quite unfairly maligned in recent years. What did you both think of your former Defence Professor?”

As the young woman had spoken about Professor Quirrell, Harry had judged it safe to let the depth of his pain and loss show on his face. After she asked her question, he breathed in deep, and let out a sigh.

“I was particularly close to Professor Quirrell,” he said, “We were very much alike, in some ways. I miss him, and I hate that he’s gone.” Harry was not looking at the ring on his finger. Internal Harry felt the urge to look, but he was very intentionally resisting. “But, he died well, protecting us all from Voldemort,” he continued, and Internal Harry felt a knife twist within himself at the lie, “he was more than a teacher, he was a friend and a mentor. It hurts again every time I remember that he’s gone.” _And that it was all a lie._

_Freeow. Freeow. Frrwerrrppp!_

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to Hermione. “I’m okay. Thank you, but I’m okay, really.” She smiled encouragingly back at him.

She spoke herself, then. “I didn’t know Professor Quirrell nearly as well as Harry did. He was intimidating. Scary, even, I thought. For a while there, I was convinced that he was a Dark Lord in disguise. But Harry’s right, he did end up dying well. He protected his students until the very last.”

Harry awarded himself several hundred points for not reacting in shock to Hermione’s utterly accurate assessment of Quirinius Quirrell. He allowed himself a slightly puzzled frown of disagreement at her comment, after which he focused on his breathing until Mistress Miralecha spoke again. No matter which level she was working at, it would not do to draw attention to that comment with a denial.

“Cunning and ambition are sometimes mistaken for darkness, I have noticed. Of course, the reverse is also true in some cases. Well, either way, it seems I have indeed missed an opportunity in not meeting your Professor Quirrell. Many of us are plucked from this life entirely too soon, and too few of us get the opportunity that you have had, Miss Granger. Use it wisely.” Her voice was entirely calm, as if she were discussing nothing of particular emotional impact.

Hermione looked down at her hands. “I intend to,” she said, with a quiet intensity.

Mistress Miralecha smiled slightly, as she continued on. “I have long believed that no one should dwell overlong on the past. I can see that you both have quite the future ahead of you, no matter what happens. At some point soon, we will need to discuss your goals for your Defence tutoring, but that can wait until another meeting, if I am hired on. And I see no need to continue asking you revealing questions. I do have the advantage of both of you. I have, after all, read so much about you both in the British newspapers, and I am a non-entity in Britain. Is there anything you would like to ask of me?”

Harry pretended to think while he continued to recover from what Hermione had said, and from his memories of Professor Quirrell and Lord Voldemort. Hermione herself responded after a few moments. “The Headmistress said you had taught very successfully at Durmstrang. You must have had a good reason for applying for Defence at Hogwarts instead of continuing on there.”

The young woman nodded in response. “An insightful observation. I did indeed have a good reason for moving on from Durmstrang. It is, you see, a school with quite a few ideas that are exceedingly old fashioned, to say the least. Although I was quite effective at keeping order in my classroom, and at actually teaching my students, the administration took issue with the fact that I was unwilling to use torture as punishment. They stated it differently, of course, but that is what it came down to. We had quite the disagreement, and I decided in the end, that it would be best to leave the whole thing behind me. What is it they say, a case of irreconcilable differences? Yes, I think that describes it best.”

_Nreeeek. Nreeeeek. Yoww._

Harry had managed to think of a question by then, and he took advantage of the relative silence after a slowly spinning green triangle had ceased to shriek like a cat in heat to ask it. “What impression did you get from what you read about us in the newspapers?” That should be interesting to hear about, anyway, as well as being a distraction from the comment about Dark Lords that was still weighing on Harry’s mind.

“Well, the discerning reader knows to adjust for the agenda of the author, of course. And so, I was not too disturbed by the more colourful things that have been said about the two of you. The _Daily Prophet_ says much, you see, and only some of it is actually true. Although it did publish a retraction for only the second time recently, soon after Lucius Malfoy publicly stated that Miss Granger had nothing to do with the attack on his son. Quite exceptional, indeed.”

Hermione had started when the young woman had made reference to her trial and arrest, but when Harry gave her a questioning glance, she returned with a weary smile and a slight nod.

_Vooop. Vooop. Vooooooop._

“And the _Quibbler_ is rarely true,” Mistress Miralecha continued, with a wry grin, “though often quite entertaining. It is a shame, isn’t it, that those are the only two options for British witches and wizards. One would think that someone in that business would be interested in the truth. But perhaps I am being naive, as they say.

“A few months ago, Mr. Potter, I was able to discern that you had made an enemy of Lucius Malfoy, and then, rather astoundingly, transformed him into a friend. I will not ask how you managed this. Your plots are, of course, your own. In the midst of that affair, there were reports that you had frightened a Dementor in front of the entire Wizengamot. This seems rather more improbable than any other report of your actions. I do not consider your supposed betrothal to Ginerva Weasley, because, of course, that matter led to the first printed retraction in the history of the Daily Prophet. But I will not belabour the point. Suffice to say, all reports of you and Miss Granger that reached me did nothing to dissuade me from the opinion that you were both exceedingly interesting individuals. I confess, I find my goals are served best by anonymity, but your methods are also your own, of course.”

Harry's brain rapidly downshifted from considering the subtle implications of the young woman's previous words as he listened to this rather blunt summation. He had, of course, known that there existed smart individuals in the wizarding world who could piece together and unravel all the stories about him, given the time, but to hear it all at once and so succinctly was still rather shocking. He really did need to raise the level of his game.

“If I could ask you a question, and return to my first line of inquiry briefly,” the young woman said, and Harry's inner observer was briefly consumed by terror as the conversation swung back around towards Voldemort. Hermione’s comment about Professor Quirrell was too close to the truth, and Mistress Miralecha seemed cunning enough to guess who Quirrell really was. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger,” she continued, “what do you make of this?” And she opened a pouch at her side and wordlessly withdrew a rolled newspaper that quite obviously wouldn’t have naturally fit within. Harry silently took it, and braced himself as he unrolled it and discovered that it was a copy of the _Quibbler_.

_Mreerr. Mreerr. Mreerr._

He was also feeling an odd desire to find a can of Comed-Tea. This information from the future still didn't quite prepare him for the headline, which read:

**Dark Lord He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Vanquished by Tom Riddle, Brought to True Happiness Through Quidditch!**

Harry somehow managed not to choke on his own saliva.

A voice said, “Huh?” in surprise. Harry stared at the paper for what felt like a thousand years, as his brain stayed utterly silent. The same voice said, “But that’s not true, I saw, he touched Hermione and exploded,” and the part of Harry that knew exactly how the Dark Lord had been defeated belatedly recognized that voice as his, or rather, the voice of a Harry who knew little of the Dark Lord, and nothing of Tom Riddle. He wordlessly passed the paper to Hermione, who took it, tilted her head slightly as she read, and was silent for another thousand years. Finally she said, “That makes less sense than usual for the Quibbler. How is that even possible?”

“Indeed. One wonders who could possibly be writing such as this, and exactly how askew their view of this admittedly strange world is. Or perhaps it would be best not to know. Mr. Potter?”

“I don’t think Quidditch would make the Dark Lord happy,” Harry’s mouth slowly said, independent of his brain. “I haven’t heard anything about him ever being happy. Just, murderously rageful, really. Could I have a chair? I need to think about this a while. And would somebody silence the rest of those things, please?”

_EEEeeek. EEEeeek._

Harry collapsed into a hastily conjured squishy chair, and let his brain regroup. He was dimly aware of Hermione in a chair that had appeared next to his, and of the Headmistress’ voice, sounding oddly distant.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Potter, those are the devices that have proven resistant to my attempts to silence them. Otherwise, this office would be quite calmer, and more suited towards thinking.”

_mmBloop. mmBloop. mmBloop._

“May I?” asked Mistress Miralecha. At McGonagall’s nod, she pulled out her wand and muttered something in a language with far too many consonants at each of the still-noisy devices in turn. They fell silent, one by one, with each sharp twist of her wand. All except the last, which looked like a miniature see-saw tilting back and forth, and which went ‘EEEEEE-ooooooo-EEEEEEE-oooooo’ as it moved. She gave a thoughtful “Hmmmm,” paused a moment, and then cast a second Charm at that one, and the noise diminished to a barely audible whisper.

_ ‘EEE-oooo-EEE-oooo’ _

“Thank you very much, Mistress Miralecha. Please report back here tomorrow morning to discuss the terms of your employment.”

“Thank you, Headmistress. It was a pleasure to meet you, and I look forward to the coming year. And it was wonderful to meet you both as well, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger. Shall we meet tomorrow at, say, three in the afternoon, to discuss your lessons?”

Harry stood up and said something in agreement, and was dimly aware of Hermione doing the same. He shook the young woman’s hand just before she left, and it took him a moment to fully process two strange things. Her hand was shockingly warm, not quite enough to burn, but entirely too close. The other was more elusive, and it kept slipping out of his mind, but he was reminded of something he’d read years ago, about a theory that the custom of the handshake developed so that two strangers could prove to each other that they weren’t carrying any weapons. Why that idea was so unsettling now, he didn’t know. And his brain kept hiccoughing and sputtering through its disjointed worries about just exactly what the new Defence Professor had discovered of himself and Hermione.

_ ‘EEE-oooo-EEE-oooo’ _

He shook his head, and realized that he was still holding the Quibbler. He _really_ didn’t want to read that article right now. That had been a test, and he felt like he’d only just skated by with an Acceptable. Maybe even with a minus after. But his brain didn’t want any more shocks just yet.

“Well,” he said, into the entirely novel silence, “We’ll need to let Moody know that he’ll be invisibly watching our meeting with the new Defence Professor.”

_ ‘EEE-oooo-EEE-oooo’ _

“Indeed,” said the Headmistress. “I will inform him myself.”

“Aren’t you both being a little paranoid?” Hermione asked.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall responded, “I am certain that once Mad-Eye learns what has transpired, he will insist. She is the Defence Professor, after all. And she seemed to guess something, or am I mistaken, Mr. Potter?”

“It seems quite likely. Well. Madame Bones did say that my behavior made certain things obvious to anyone smart enough who was paying attention. I guess I’ll just have to be especially cunning if I want my secrets to stay secret.” Harry felt a grin forming on his face. “That shouldn’t be--” He cut off speaking as he realised what he was no longer feeling. “Did either of you notice a sense of fiery doom while she was here?”

The Headmistress sighed. “I suppose it was unavoidable that it would be another interesting year, wasn’t it?”

_ ‘EEE-oooo-EEE-oooo’ _

“Well, I liked her,” Hermione chimed in, “She seemed much nicer than Professor Quirrell, and I didn’t feel any doom of any sort.”

“Well then. Do I want to know what the other-- Wait,” Harry interrupted himself again. “LUNA LOVEGOOD IS ACTUALLY A SEER?!”


End file.
